Just as Anton watched her walk away, something flickered at the edge of his awareness.
A shift.
Not in Nastya—but in the room.
Movement.
Too fast. Too purposeful.
Across the gallery, a man in a dark coat brushed past a waiter—close, too close. Anton's instincts, honed by years of violence hidden in velvet, flared like a match to oil.
He stepped forward, slow and steady, eyes locked on the stranger.
Nastya noticed the change too. Not the man—just the sudden stillness in Anton. The quiet tension of a predator listening for the snap of a branch.
And then—
A crash.
Glass shattering.
A woman screamed.
Everyone turned toward the sound—except Anton.
He was already moving.
The man in the dark coat had dropped a tray, but it wasn't his. He wasn't a waiter. He moved like someone who didn't belong.
Security was slow to react.
Anton wasn't.
He caught the man's arm just as he tried to slip out the side door.
No shouting. No chaos. Just precision.
"He's not one of yours," Anton said coldly to the nearest guard. "Next time, vet your guest list properly."
The man didn't struggle. He knew who had him. And that was enough.
Nastya stood frozen, one hand over her chest, breath shallow. She hadn't even seen the threat—not clearly—but she'd seen him
Anton, calm and lethal.
Elegant and terrifying.
And when he turned back to her, the room slowly remembering how to breathe, he looked almost apologetic.
"You were saying something," he said quietly, as if nothing had happened.
But Nastya couldn't remember what it was.
Because suddenly, she realized—
He's not just powerful.
He's dangerous.
And somehow, that didn't make her want to leave.
It made her want to understand.
She couldn't hear the music anymore.
Just the sound of her own breathing.
It had all happened so fast—too fast to fully understand, but not fast enough to forget. One second, the gala was polished, glittering, civilized. The next, it cracked.
And he had moved through it like a man who'd done it before.
No panic. No hesitation. Not even anger. Just control.
She hadn't seen the man who caused it. Not really. Just the blur of motion, the flash of broken glass, the sound of a chair scraping violently across the floor.
But she'd seen Anton.
The way his eyes had changed. The sharpness in them. The way his hand closed around the stranger's arm like steel.
He wasn't just powerful.
He was practiced.
That was what chilled her more than the scene itself—not the moment of danger, but how natural it looked on him. Like violence didn't disturb him. Like it was part of his world, tucked neatly behind custom suits and smooth words.
And yet…
She didn't feel afraid.
Not of him.
That realization unsettled her more than anything.
He walked back toward her now, casual, as if he hadn't just neutralized a potential threat with the ease of swatting a fly.
"You were saying something," he'd said again. Like they were in the middle of tea.
Nastya forced herself to meet his eyes.
There was no triumph in them. No pride. Just observation.
And maybe—just maybe—concern.
"You didn't flinch," she said quietly. "Not even once."
Anton tilted his head slightly, considering her.
"Neither did you."
That made her pause.
She hadn't, had she?
She'd stood still, even as others gasped and scattered.
"Is that something I should be proud of?" she asked.
"No," he said. "It's something you should be careful about."
And for the first time all evening, Nastya felt seen. Not admired. Not objectified.
Understood.
It was more dangerous than charm. More powerful than fear.
And suddenly, she knew something with absolute certainty:
She would not forget this man.
No matter how hard she tried.